Just As I Remember
by Freelance Fanfictioner
Summary: What will happen to Sansa Stark now that she lost her famous beauty? Will she feel more sympathetic towards the ugliest man in the Seven Kingdoms? Post-war AU.
1. Chapter 1

With the help of her maids, Sansa climbed out of the tub and toweled herself dry. Outside, the wind was howling, chasing a drift of snow over the castle turrets. The Maesters might declare that spring has come, but here in the north it was winter yet, all white and still, without the faintest traces of stirring life. The castle grounds were thickly covered in snow. Sansa didn't care, though. She didn't go out much these days, and within the walls of Winterfell it was always warm.

In the annex where she usually took her bath, the hot water made white vapor rise in a dense cloud, which obscured the mirror that hung on the opposite wall. Which was all to the good, as far as Sansa was concerned. When she first came back to her old rooms in Winterfell, the first thing she did was take off all the mirrors. It was only after Arya's insistence, months later, that she returned two looking-glasses to their former places. She still tried to pass in front of them as quickly as possible, though, with her head bowed. It has been years, but the sight of her own face, heavily scarred by pox, still brought tears to her eyes.

It happened during her stay in the Vale with Petyr Baelish. The pox epidemic was harsh, and almost no household was wholly spared. The disease claimed lives, and so Sansa supposed she ought to feel grateful that hers was spared, but she did not. Often, she felt it would have been better for her to die than to go on living in this disfigured state. Still, at least the disease interfered with Littlefinger's schemes. Upon seeing the face of his wife-to-be, Harry the Heir didn't rest until he managed to wriggle out of the betrothal, and Littlefinger himself withdrew his disturbing attentions from Sansa. She was allowed to go on living in peace and obscurity until the end of the war, when House Targaryen reclaimed the throne and put things to right.

The ugly barbed iron chair so many pretenders fought for was discarded. Three thrones were placed instead of it, carved in the shape of dragons - a larger one in the center, for King Aegon. The two smaller thrones flanking it were for the king's wife, princess Arianne of Dorne, and his aunt, the queen Daenerys Targaryen who, as all knew, was the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

The war was over, pardons granted, families reunited. Sansa herself experienced a tearful reunion with Arya and Rickon, the latter being named Lord Stark and granted his ancestral seat of Winterfell. The Stark children went back home and began the slow work of rebuilding their life and their castle, with the help of their devoted and energetic castellan.

Sansa was now eight-and-ten. A year ago, after a furious exchange of ravens between Winterfell and King's Landing, a document was presented before her announcing the annulment of her marriage to Tyrion Lannister on grounds of coercion and non-consummation. Sansa supposed she ought to feel relieved, but she hardly did. The marriage itself seemed almost ephemeral now, after such a long time had passed since she last saw Tyrion, and thinking of it only evoked all the terrible memories of her time in King's Landing.

She was free now, and after word of that got out, she received several offers of marriage, but those were insults. They came from younger sons of minor houses, landless knights, even ambitious bastard sons - men who would never have dared to address the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, unless they knew how much her choices must be narrowed by the misfortune that befell her. She refused them all, and then wondered what she should do next. The way she was brought up, it was clear to her there were but two paths for a noble gently bred lady - marriage or holy vows. Since the possibility of marriage has turned into such disgrace, it would have to be the latter for her. She would go and become a religious apprentice, and once she is a septa, she decided, she would come home again. She could teach Arya's children, and Rickon's, and at least be respected and loved by her family if no one else.

Once she dressed, there was a knock on her door - uncharacteristically timid for Arya. Sansa saw her sister carrying ink, quill and parchment, and her heart sank. She realized what this is about.

"You must write," Arya said without preamble. "I helped Rickon form his reply, but you are the eldest Stark daughter. They are expecting to hear from you as well. This delay is really unseemly - the bird from King's Landing has lingered here for two days already, and you still haven't written. You realize, don't you, what will be thought of us if we put off confirming our attendance for very long?"

Sansa privately thought how ironic it was that Arya was teaching her social graces now, but merely sighed. "I would have written straight away if you had agreed to what I want to put in my letter."

"I will not," said Arya. Her sister, Arya Horseface, has grown up to be a fine-looking girl. She didn't have the famous beauty of her mother, the lady Catelyn, but at sixteen, she was tall, willowy and straight as a lance, and there was an engaging sparkle in her grey eyes. "You are expected at the tourney. If you write and say that you have chosen this precise moment to go and take your vows, it will be seen as an insult. Do I have to remind you that we aren't exactly in the Targaryens' good books as it is? Father fought along Robert Baratheon at the Trident."

Sansa knew it was true. They were very fortunate that Winterfell was given back to them, and that the queen Daenerys expressed gracious hope for a new era of loyalty and trust between houses Targaryen and Stark. Actually, when she thought about it, Sansa could not figure out how come the Starks were so generously pardoned, with all expressions of royal goodwill. Many houses that aided Robert Baratheon in a far less prominent way were still frowned upon by the new rulers.

Years ago, when she was still a little girl, nothing could have prevented her from going to a tourney. This was going to be a grand one, in honor of the renewal of house Targaryen, and would be held in Harrenhal in defiance to old ghosts. Lords and ladies from all corners of the realm would attend. If the Starks appeared at all neglectful in this regard, Sansa realized, it would be seen as the epitome of rudeness, unless she had an absolutely iron-clad excuse to remain behind. But she had none. She hasn't taken the holy vows yet, and the disease left no lingering weakness. She was as strong and healthy as always. It was just her face... her face, which she would give anything to hide from the world for as long as she lived.

Yet she knew she had no choice. She would have to write to the queen, and write just what was expected of her. She was going to attend the tourney of Harrenhal.

Reluctantly, she took the writing supplies from her sister's hands, settled at her desk, and dipped quill into ink. In her pretty, well-trained hand she began to compose a reply swiftly, lest she regrets. _Her Grace the Queen gives us great honour and delight... _

They were to be gone a week hence.


	2. Chapter 2

Out of the window in her Harrenhal chambers, Sansa saw a sea of tents.

Although the castle of Harrenhal was vast, only a small part of it was fitted up for habitation by the time the tourney began. Many of the guests, even very important ones, had to stay outside in tents and wheelhouses. This made Sansa particularly grateful for their accommodations, of which hers, it seemed, were the most spacious and comfortable.

They arrived the night before, and today was the day when the tourney was due to begin. The Starks would be expected to make their public appearance in the morning, soon after breaking their fast. Sansa was made nervous by the prospect. Ever since her illness, she has not found herself in such vast crowds of people, but she knew rumours of what happened to her have surely traveled across the realm. She could only hope the tourney would hold enough attractions to keep people from staring at her face too much. During their journey, she used a lot of heavy hooded cloaks, scarves and veils, but now it would not be appropriate.

Sansa recalled masks were in fashion in one of the Free Cities, and wearing one was considered a sign of good breeding and elegance. She felt sorry it couldn't be the same here.

After eating a bowl of porridge with milk, butter and honey, Sansa followed her sister and brother down the many drafty corridors that led them to the courtyard. A large crowd was already bustling there, humming with excited noise. Despite the lingering chill of a spring morning, everyone cast their cloaks aside to reveal the brilliance of their best clothes, and took care to wear the sigils of their house most advantageously. The direwolf of Stark, too, was sparkling and proud, embroidered in silver thread over Rickon's coat. Both Sansa and Arya wore dresses of grey velvet, with the hems, sleeves and bodices trimmed in white silk and richly embroidered in silver as well.

The Starks made their steps toward the royal pavilion, to pay their respects to the king and queens, but to their vast surprise, King Aegon himself strode forward to greet them, with a pleasant smile upon his face. The king seemed to be a little older than twenty, and resembled so much all Sansa ever heard about the appearance of Prince Rhaegar that she stopped in her tracks and only managed to do a rather clumsy curtsy. The Targaryen colors of black and red accentuated his fair hair, and his violet eyes were benevolent and kind, though without a trace of the solemnity his father was so renowned for. "Your Grace," Sansa murmured in a rather flat voice.

"My lord and ladies of Stark," he said, "it is a great pleasure to see you here, on this glorious day." He was not exaggerating. The clouds parted and the sun began to shine with a vigor that clearly belonged to an onset of springtime.

"It is a great honor to be here, Your Grace," ventured Rickon, following a subtle shove of Arya's elbow in his ribs.

"The tourney will begin soon," said the king. "If you please, you are to be seated with us in the royal pavilion," he added graciously. Sansa and Arya exchanged a fleeting glance of surprise, but certainly, such a proclamation from His Grace could evoke no reply but the readiest acquiescence and warmest gratitude.

With trepidation, they followed the king to the luxurious pavilion, draped in black and red silk, with the Targaryen banner of a three-headed dragon flying high and proud. It was full of people who, presumably, belonged to the Targaryen retinue.

Rickon bowed and Sansa and Arya sank into deep curtsies before the two queens. The king's wife, Arianne Martell, was a beautiful woman, tall and shapely, with dark hair that was partly unbound and fell upon her shoulders in soft waves, and a soft, seductive air all about her. And the queen Daenerys Targaryen was the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever beheld. With her long hair of pale silvery gold and eyes of deepest purple, she looked like the image of old Valyria reborn. She, too, looked not much older than Sansa, and was perhaps not very tall, but she drew herself up fierce and proud more than any knight who would fight for her favor today. Nominally, the realm had two queens; in reality, Queen Arianne was the king's wife and the mother of his son, but Queen Daenerys, Aegon's aunt, was his counselor and advisor, his equal... and, evil tongues whispered, maybe even his superior.

"Your Grace," Sansa said in a voice that nearly faltered with nerves. Arya echoed her.

"My ladies of Stark," replied the queen, with something more than the formal graciousness. "Do be seated." That had to wait for some minutes, though, because the Starks were introduced to everyone in the royal retinue, which consisted of a large number of Martells and other Dornish noblemen. Jorah Mormont was there too, the queen's stalwart, most loyal protector. Everyone was kind and civil, but it seemed to Sansa that pitying looks lingered on her face, and she felt uncomfortable, and wished she could be gone. And then there was...

"Lady Stark," King Aegon said unexpectedly. "Allow me to present the lord Tyrion Lannister, our former war counselor, who was recently named Hand of the King. As this decision was only made recently, I assume it has not yet reached Winterfell."

"No, Your Grace," mumbled Sansa, hardly aware of what she is saying. Obviously the king was surprised not to hear her utter the pleasantries of an introduction.

"We have met before, Your Grace," clarified Tyrion, who looked as awkward as she felt.

"Have you indeed?" said the king lightly. "Lord Tyrion always spoke most highly of the honor and loyalty of the Starks," he explained to Sansa, "but I did not recall that you are personally acquainted... although... you spent some time in King's Landing years ago, did you not?" He squinted, as if trying to remember an elusive detail. "When your lord father was appointed the King's Hand?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa replied, rather stiffly. Those memories brought her no pleasure, and besides, her mind was working swiftly. _Lord Tyrion always spoke most highly of the honor and loyalty of the Starks_... could this explain the surprising goodwill the Targaryens have displayed towards them? The pardon, which was granted almost without question, the rebuilding of Winterfell, the way they were now being distinguished here at Harrenhal... if Tyrion spoke in their favor, how much did they all owe him! But _why? _Why would he even care about them at all? Sansa blushed faintly, recalling that nothing in her behaviour towards Tyrion encouraged such deference. And yet... deep in her heart, she knew he did care, however long ago. Upon reflection, she realized that Tyrion was the only one in King's Landing who ever helped her in a disinterested way.

A horn sounded, indicating the beginning of the tourney, and there was a general bustle as everyone began making way towards their seats. Sansa was embarrassed to realize she alone remained standing in front of the Imp, overpowered by a wave of recollections. This was the first time they met since Joffrey's wedding. She was mortified to see Tyrion's mismatched eyes scrutinizing her face slowly and steadily, probably comparing its present state to what it was before.

"You are just as I remember," he said quite unexpectedly after a moment of silence. Sansa's felt an upsurge of anger. Surely he was mocking her? "Sad," he elaborated, "you seem just as sad as you were in King's Landing, Sansa. I know your losses have been great, but at least you were able to retain part of your family, and to go home."

He was speaking quietly, and in the general excited noise and chatter, no one seemed to pay attention to them, except Arya, who threw her sister a quick, slightly anxious glance from her seat. "We have all suffered misfortunes in the war," she said blandly.

"You were ill, I know," Tyrion went on. "I heard you were on the brink of death. It is good to see you looking strong and well."

"You are kind to say so, my lord," she nodded expressionlessly. _What does he want from me? Wouldn't it be sensible to avoid each other as much as possible? After all that had come to pass, any exchange of words is awkward. _

He seemed to read her mind. "I hope I am not taking too much of a liberty," he said. "I _had _been your husband, after all, however brief our union was. And I know how it feels."

"I'm afraid I cannot understand what you mean, my lord," said Sansa. _People are beginning to stare. It is better to be seated at once. _

"To have people flinch when they look upon you," explained Tyrion. A blush of mortification and guilt covered Sansa's face, up to the roots of her hair. "Oh no," he hastened to add. "I didn't mean to say it that way... I'm far from blaming _you _for the way you used to look at _me_. I sometimes flinch away from my own reflection," he added with a twisted half-smile. "But still... you can ignore it and go on. And at times I cannot tell whether people became accustomed to me and stopped staring, or I simply stopped paying attention to it."

_At least my nose is intact, _an absurd thought crossed Sansa's mind, and she gave a nervous little laugh. "That is more like it," Tyrion said approvingly. "We had better be seated now," he pointed out. "It wouldn't do to miss the beginning of the tourney."

Almost without noticing it, Sansa allowed him to escort her to her seat. Only after her eyes were fixed upon the first two knights who rode forward to the blow of trumpets, did she realize how much she dreaded meeting Tyrion. It was a relief to know that this fear, at least, was unjustified.


	3. Chapter 3

Queen Arianne seemed to have taken a sincere liking to Sansa, and invited her to a private supper in the royal chambers. Sansa couldn't feel very enthusiastic about the prospect; the tourney grounds were always teeming with people so that it was almost impossible to make one's way without treading on someone's feet, and after the day's amusements, Sansa looked forward to a quiet evening with just her sister and brother for company. But of course, propriety dictated its own rules, and she warmly expressed her delight in the queen's invitation.

She dressed slowly and carefully, with a hint of trepidation. For some reason, she was reminded of that time long ago when she was preparing to sup with the lady Margaery Tyrell and her ladies. Looking back, it was obvious to her that the invitation had two motives: to confirm what the Tyrells already knew about Joffrey's brutal nature, and to broach the subject of marrying Sansa to Willas Tyrell, and thus strengthening Highgarden's influence among the northmen. Now Sansa marveled at how quickly she reconciled herself to the idea of marrying the Tyrell heir, who was, as she knew full well, considerably older than herself, not very good-looking, and lame besides. Yes, she very much wanted to get away from King's Landing for good, and yes, she liked the descriptions of Highgarden - but most of all, she had to admit, her willingness to agree was because she was lonely and very quickly grew fond of Margaery. She wanted to be her sister. _Would it have made a difference if Margaery's brother was a dwarf? _Sansa chided herself for idle thoughts, and proceeded to pick the cloak she would wear with her dress that night. Harrenhal's corridors were long and drafty, and called for warm garments to ward off the chill.

In the royal chambers, Sansa noticed Tyrion was present as well. _Why am I surprised? He appears to be close to both King Aegon and Queen Daenerys... and to have some measure of influence over them. _He greeted her politely, but Sansa's response, while civil, was somewhat stiff. She was certain that among Queen Arianne's ladies-in-waiting, there were at least a few who knew all the details of her former marriage to Tyrion.

"Do be seated, Lady Sansa," said the young king solicitously, as the first course - soup of venison with wild mushrooms and herbs - was being served. A harpist was seated in a corner, and sweet soothing music poured from underneath his hands.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa said politely. She wasn't feeling at ease, but decided to pass the time as pleasantly as possible. Soon, she reminded herself, she was going back to Winterfell, and she would not hear harpists for a very long time.

"Lady Sansa," said Queen Arianne in her engaging manner, "I have an offer for you, which I don't think you will be able to refuse."

Sansa looked at her warily. "An offer, Your Grace?"

"If I were you, I would hate the thought of returning to the dreary north when the tournament is over," said the queen. _She doesn't mean to sound disparaging, _Sansa told herself. _She is Dornish. Winterfell for her is what the Frostfangs are for us. "_Why don't you come to King's Landing with us and stay there for a while?"

Sansa's spoon froze in mid-air. It was as though, once again, someone was responding to her hidden thoughts. _Careful now. The last thing you want is to offend her. _Yet she decided she would, for once, be honest. "I fear it is out of my power, Your Grace," she said. She took a deep breath. "Before coming here, I resolved that as soon as the tournament is over, I will take holy vows. I intend to become a septa."

All around her, Sansa heard noises of protest. Only Tyrion remained silent and, Sansa noticed, unsurprised. A frown appeared on his face and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Impossible!" cried the king. "Why would a young lady such as yourself do that?" But he didn't speak further, and no one dared to challenge Sansa's statement. It seemed to her that afterwards, the air was a bit strained all throughout supper, and she was sorry to have been the cause of it, yet she didn't feel she could help it. She was sure Queen Arianne's partiality to her company came to an end.

After the sweets were served and cleared, Tyrion, who didn't speak a word to her all evening, found his way to her side with surprising quickness and volunteered to escort her back to her chambers. It was done so politely and courteously that Sansa could hardly refuse, and they set on their way, their footsteps echoing in the vast corridors of the castle.

"Do you know," Tyrion said slowly, "that my niece took the vows of a septa as well?"

"Myrcella?" Sansa didn't expect this. "Why?"

"Her face was ruined by a scar," Tyrion explained briskly. "She was betrothed, but - "

"But it didn't signify much, in the end," Sansa finished with a hint of bitterness. As many misgivings as she had about Harrold Hardyng, it still stung to see the look in his eyes when he met her after the pox ravaged the delicate skin of her face.

"Just so. Myrcella took her vows a couple of months ago," he paused, "but I do not believe doing the same would be good for you."

"You don't, my lord?" Sansa repeated warily. She was a little taken aback by his forwardness.

"Am I being too interfering?" inquired Tyrion, stopping in his tracks to face her.

"The queen's invitation," said Sansa, "were you behind it?"

It was very unlike her to ask such a blunt question, but she suddenly realized that, as awkward as the present situation was, she still felt more at ease with Tyrion Lannister now than she ever did when they were married. Perhaps it was that she no longer had to fear tonight would be the night when he decides to claim his spousal rights. And that she no longer was a pawn of the Lannisters helped as well.

"I was the one who came up with the idea," Tyrion admitted, "but Queen Arianne seized upon it with great enthusiasm. She says she immediately recognized a young lady of rare worth in you."

"This would hardly surprise me," said Sansa, "if someone close to the king and queens constantly sings praise of the Starks."

Unexpectedly, Tyrion laughed - not his dry, sarcastic laugh, often tinged with bitterness, but an easy laugh of a child who was caught in some happy mischief but knows he will not be punished. "I should not have hoped to outwit you."

But Sansa would not allow herself to be diverted. "Why?" she wanted to know. "Why did you care what happens to me?"

"You have been through enough," Tyrion said, serious again. "Why should the remaining Starks suffer the consequences of royal displeasure as well? The breach between Stark and Targaryen happened before you were even born, Sansa. I admit I did my best to bring this to King Aegon's attention."

"I thank you, my lord," said Sansa as courteously as possible, "for Winterfell, for my brother and sister's future... but as to my own destiny, I believe I can decide for myself."

"Certainly," Tyrion said irritably, "but you are not the sort of woman who would do well as a septa. You have a warm heart, my lady. You are best suited to have a decent husband and a brood of good-natured children." He gave her a quick sideways glance, as if to see if she isn't offended. Sure enough, Sansa pursed her lips.

"We don't all end up with what we are best suited to have," she kept on walking, so swiftly now that Tyrion barely managed to keep up with her.

He had no intention of relenting, though. "Are you going to renounce the world because of a few pockmarks?" he demanded.

_He is so rude, _Sansa thought furiously. _How dare he? _Her cheeks burned. _Was he always like that, or did I just forget because so many things were far more terrible at the time? _

A sudden sharp draft of wind made windows on both sides of the corridor open sharply with a clatter and bang, and a gust of cold air swept inside and snuffed out the oil lamps that burned with a dim light. The cold echoing space was plunged into total darkness, and Sansa, caught off guard, stumbled and nearly fell.

The arms that blocked her fall were surprisingly strong. "Damnable stupid castle. I told Queen Daenerys that it is folly to hold this tourney at Harrenhal at its present state, but she wouldn't listen to me... are you hurt, my lady?"

"It's nothing," Sansa gasped, steadying herself. She hit her elbow against a stone wall and was fairly sure she would see a bruise upon the morrow. _It is nothing. If the gods are good, I will never again have as many bruises as I had when I was Joffrey's plaything. _For a moment they were both silent, and Sansa wondered how they would find their way in this darkness.

But then Tyrion spoke, and when he did, his voice was quite different from anything she had ever heard before. "Can you believe," he said, "that once, someone loved even _my_ face?"

"I..." Sansa wasn't sure what to say. Her curiosity was piqued, but she didn't know how she should reply to that. _Yes, I can readily believe it _and _no, I could never believe it _sounded equally wrong.

_"_It was a long time ago, my lady," he said, but listening to the pain in his voice, it could have been yesterday. "There was a girl who loved me... as I was, and for who I was. But I thought myself so unworthy of love that when I heard a terrible lie about this girl, I believed it without question and abandoned her to her fate. I didn't realize my mistake until much later," he spoke slowly, as if every word was produced with tremendous effort. "She was long dead by then."

"My lord, I..." Sansa began again, attempting to form a proper reply, but her courtesies failed her once more. In the dark, everything was so different. Unbidden, Tyrion's words from long ago came to her mind. _In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers. _His voice was rich and expressive, and upon hearing it in the dark, it was hard to believe that it belonged to a man of such small stature.

"She would have loved me even if she had seen me after the Blackwater battle," said Tyrion, and an abrupt silence fell. This mysterious story made Sansa sad, and a little envious. They continued stumbling in the dark, until they reached a torch-lit corridor and walked on.

Once Sansa was back in the solitude of her chambers, she lit candles and, for the first time in she didn't know how long, sat still in front of the mirror, mercilessly staring at her reflection. The flickering, uneven light made the pockmarks on her face look deeper than they did during the day, but upon honest reflection, Sansa had to admit that she was not exactly ugly... or at least, not hideous in the fascinating way that would make people stare such as Tyrion's scarred face. She was simply homely. It was just that she had always been the beauty of the family, and was so admired before the disease struck. _Was I no more than that? _She probed her feelings anxiously. _A pretty face?_

Then her thoughts went back to her brief marriage. Yes, she mistrusted Tyrion because he was a Lannister, and she hated the Lannisters for what they did to her mother and Robb, but if Tyrion had looked like his brother Jaime, would she still be a maid after her wedding night? Probably not. The look of revulsion - which was what stopped Tyrion from following his father's orders to consummate the marriage - would not have been there. The realization made her squirm with sudden guilt. _Do not be so harsh on yourself. You were only thirteen, and you have dreamed of a handsome gallant husband all your life. _

_I am only a little lion, child, and I vow, I shall not savage you. _He was true to his promise. And it was at this moment that Sansa knew - even if Tyrion did not truly love her, he easily could have... if there was the faintest possibility of ever breaking through the wall of ice that surrounded her. _There wasn't, though. One of the first words he had from me as his lady wife was _never.

She didn't know why she cried for so long, staring into the mirror, knowing and not knowing the woman who stared back at her. But for the first time in years, tears brought relief.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the days in Harrenhal passed without any noticeable event, save one: Sansa saw the man to whom she had been betrothed. Harrold Hardyng rode into the tourney field, young and handsome and confident, and proceeded to win a sweeping victory. Upon becoming the tourney champion, he bestowed the crown of love and beauty upon Her Grace, the Queen Daenerys. Sansa noticed how Harrold's eyes rested upon the queen's face with longing he could scarce conceal, but Queen Daenerys merely smiled and graciously acknowledged the honor, and did not speak to the champion more than propriety required. Sansa could not suppress a little smirk that crept to her lips. _This one's ambition knows no limits. Being Lord of the Vale does not satisfy him; he seeks to be the queen's consort. _

Soon it was time to leave, and as the Starks proceeded towards where their horses were waiting for them, Tyrion surprised Sansa by coming to say farewell. Beyond the expected courtesies, they have not spoken since that night when they stumbled together through the dark corridor. Now Sansa curtsied with outwardly perfect cool grace, although her tummy fluttered for some strange reason. _I will probably never see him again. _But then, she had thought so once already...

"It is a shame that you will not consider coming to King's Landing for a while, my lady," said Tyrion Lannister. "You would find that the city vastly improved since you left it."

"I am sure it has," answered Sansa. _The place that harbored so many nightmares could not turn any worse, that's for sure. _"But I cannot go, my lord."

"Well, then..." he looked aside, and seemed to be mulling something over. "Can I at least trust that there is no ill will between us, Lady Sansa?"

Their eyes met, and Sansa's lip quivered. "There has never been any ill will," she said quietly, "and _could_ never be now, after all you had done for us."

He nodded and smiled fleetingly, and kissed her fingertips and was gone before she knew what happened. And all the way home, Sansa was unusually silent.

After coming back to Winterfell, Sansa tried to settle into her former routine, but it was no good. She was restless, dissatisfied. It was like in former days, when she was still a child and had to endure a bitter parting from guests of singers who made her father's dreary northern court livelier for a short while. _Am I still the same vain silly girl? Did I not sigh with relief when time came to depart from Harrenhal? _But no, this was a different kind of disquiet. Before going, she was certain she would take the holy vows as soon as returns, but now she kept putting it off under one pretext or the other. Arya wasn't responsible enough; it was up to _her_ to run the castle; Rickon was ill, he needed her; but these excuses were feeble. Rickon was a robust lad and soon recovered from his cold, and Arya, Sansa had to admit, was no longer the little girl who would pelt unsuspecting visitors with snow.

During that time she had another suitor, Ser Kyle Condon. He was amiable enough, and his face was not unpleasant, but he was well past forty, and of low birth. He had been the household knight of the late lord Medger Cerwyn, and the Cerwyns were bannermen to the Starks. Him paying his addresses to Sansa was almost as outrageous as Harrold Hardyng's aspiration to marry the young Targaryen queen. Furthermore, he comported himself with an air of impertinent confidence that irritated Sansa to no end. _He thinks me desperate. He is certain I will accept him. _He professed his unyielding devotion to her in a manner that left Sansa in no doubt that Ser Kyle saw her as no more than a rung he could climb. Disgusted, she told him in no uncertain terms that her mind is set on a life on religious service, and he went away, never to return.

And yet Sansa dawdled. It has been a month since they came back from the Harrenhal tourney, but she still could not bring herself to unpack some of her things. It was at this state of confused suspense that a letter from Myrcella Baratheon - now unofficially known all over the realm as Myrcella Lannister or, as evil tongues would have it, Myrcella Waters - surprisingly arrived.

Septa Myrcella wrote in a style that did credit to her head and heart. In polite terms, without being excessive, she offered her good opinion of Sansa as she remembered her from their days in the court of King's Landing, and her congratulations on house Stark being restored to its ancestral sea in Winterfell. With satisfaction, Myrcella described her current life of holy service in the Great Sept of Baelor. _Although I must say, _she went on,_ this is not a path that would be right for anyone, nor a commitment that should be entered lightly. _

Then came the part of the letter which made Sansa squirm with discomfort. In gentle and delicate terms, Myrcella confessed that she heard of the misfortune Sansa suffered following the pox epidemic. There is a honorable and talented man in King's Landing, Myrcella wrote, by the name of Maester Edwyn. He is a gifted healer, and has researched, specifically, many cures for skin afflictions, including scars. She herself has been taking advantage of his service, to great profit. She was sure that Lady Sansa would not be disappointed either, and at any rate, wasn't it worth a try? She concluded with her sincere hopes to meet Sansa in King's Landing before long, and assured her that the King's Hand - _Uncle Tyrion - _would make sure she is provided with comfortable accommodations.

"You could go," said her sister with surprising ease when Sansa showed her the letter.

"Why do you think she wrote to me?" asked Sansa.

"Myrcella is a septa now," said Arya with a shrug of the shoulders, "and you publicly declared you want to become one, too," she added with a disapproving scowl. "Such things get around."

That was no more than Sansa expected to hear from her sister. As for herself, she knew who must be behind the letter. _He truly cares about what will become of me, _she thought uncomfortably_. _She felt guilty when she realized how little thought she spared Tyrion during the time when she knew nothing of him. True, she never wished him dead, even though it would provide a quick end to their unwanted marriage, but that was all. When the war was over and she learned he is alive, all she did was contact him through a mediator - never directly - and obtain a marriage annulment.

But times and rules have changed, and she understood that what she had taken in the past for a display of Lannister cunning was, in fact, a true and generous interest in her. At the time they were wed, Tyrion knew she could not be happy, but he did all he could to make her life bearable. Only now Sansa could vaguely imagine what it must have cost him to stand up to his father regarding the consummation of their marriage. She shook her head. The Sansa of those days was already soberly mature with grief, yet she was still half a girl. Now, though... _can I trust that there is no ill will between us? _That little word _us, _although it might not have meant anything out of the ordinary, stirred something deep within her.

"I think taking the vows of a septa is just stupid," said Arya with her usual bluntness, "but you could still go and see Myrcella. The scar she has is supposed to be gruesome. If she is much improved, you could give a chance to this Maester Edwyn. What have you got to lose?"

Sansa took a deep breath, and nodded. "I'll go," she said. She needn't worry about meeting Tyrion now. It had happened already. Nothing will occur if she sees him again.


	5. Chapter 5

In uncertain steps, Tyrion made his way towards the royal sept.

When he heard of the upcoming arrival of Sansa in King's Landing, he wondered whether she had figured out he was the driving force behind his niece's letter. The way she greeted him when they first met in the city left him with little doubt of that, and yet she had come, and quite promptly at that. While their paths sometimes crossed at court, Tyrion seldom saw Sansa; from Myrcella he heard, however, that she came to see Maester Edwyn, received a promise of treatment and an encouraging prognosis, and went away elated.

He was glad for her; for her, he knew, the effect the pox had on her face was a harsh blow. As for him... yes, he had always thought Sansa lovely, but it was not her beauty that ultimately attached his heart to her. Since the death of Eddard Stark, he had an interest in Sansa's destiny, felt sorry for her, wished to protect her. From the few times he talked to Sansa, he knew she was not the silly, pretty thing people usually thought her. And later on, if it was someone else his father had tried to marry him to, he would probably have managed to find a way out. But he could never have refused Sansa Stark. He wanted to banish the sadness from her blue eyes, to make her smile again. _As if you ever could, you fool of a dwarf. _

Years later, when the war ended and Sansa asked to finalize the annulment of their marriage, he complied without protest. It stung that she never came to see him in person to arrange that, had not even written to him herself, but he understood. Still, he realized, he never stopped thinking of her as his wife. And now he remained as enchanted as ever by her quiet grace, her hidden passion, her loyalty and the truthfulness that even the teeming viper pit of Joffrey's court could not eradicate. He still longed for that lush auburn hair, the subtle sway of her slender hips, the way her full lips parted slightly when she was enthralled by a fascinating story.

And now he saw Sansa entering the royal sept and, as it seemed his feet no longer did his bidding, went in after her.

It was late afternoon, and golden beams of sunlight slanted through the mullioned windows. One of them fell upon Sansa, who knelt in front of the Crone's altar. A tall candle she had just lit gave off a small, insignificant light, nothing compared to the splendid sunset. Upon hearing his footsteps, she turned her head abruptly. "My lord," she said, surprised. _I am not known for frequenting this place. _She made to get up to greet him, but Tyrion knelt by her side as well and lit a candle as well. He didn't often pray to the Crone, but this time he felt a bit more wisdom wouldn't hurt. For a minute or two, they went on thus, each immersed in silent prayer, and Tyrion would have given much and more to read Sansa's thoughts.

Sansa was the first to break the silence, and her words took him off his guard. "We wed in this sept," she said, "do you remember, my lord?"

"I do," his voice was strained. _I will never forget, even though it seems a thousand years ago. _"I did not expect you to bring this up, though," he said honestly. "After all, it was... well, you did not want to be married to me, I know."

"You did not want to be married to me either," said Sansa, "my lord."

"Indeed?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. She looked confused.

"You told me so yourself," she sounded uncertain, "when we spoke just before the wedding."

"Time plays elusive tricks on one's memory," remarked Tyrion. "What I told you, my lady, is that I did not _ask_ for this marriage. This doesn't mean I didn't _want_ it."

Sansa's eyes widened almost imperceptibly as the meaning of his words sank in. A melancholy smile lifted the corners of her mouth ever so slightly. "Many of those who were present at our wedding are now in their graves," she said. "Much has changed," she went on, "myself perhaps most of all."

"I don't see that," said Tyrion, quietly but distinctly, facing her as they both knelt on the cold stone floor. "You are just as I remember," he paused, "beautiful."

Without thinking, without considering what he did, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her full on the lips. For a rare moment, he forgot it all - that she had always rejected him, that they were not married anymore, that he was a twisted little dwarf who had no _right_ to even be near her after all that had come to pass. He simply kissed her, yielding to his newfound passion, and knew this kiss would give her a truer notion of his feelings than anything he could ever have said.

And then he drew back, and waited for a slap that never came.

He made himself resist the urge to scramble up, turn around and flee in shame, and looked into Sansa's eyes. He saw uncertainty, but no revulsion, no fear, no pain. A moment later, without him quite knowing how it happened, her mouth was on his again, and his heart thumped wildly as he realized _she_ was kissing _him, _exploring his mouth with hers, giving him a taste of her tongue.

Her arms went around her, and her head rested on his shoulder, and like that they remained entwined in front of the Crone's altar until the last hints of gold and crimson faded from the velvet evening sky.


	6. Chapter 6

... "I don't understand," Arya said irritably some weeks later, after she was summoned to King's Landing by a letter that left her speechless. "With all the trouble you went to in order to obtain that annulment, you just went and married him again?"

"Well," Sansa said cautiously, "when we met again, I suppose I... I realized that perhaps, I should not have been in such a hurry to annul the marriage after all."

"And why so soon?" demanded Arya. "Why wouldn't you wait at least until Rickon and I made our way here?"

Sansa squirmed guiltily as she tried her hardest not to blush. The truth of it was, after she and Tyrion walked out of the sept together, they both felt more than slightly awkward. Sansa suggested a quiet talk over supper in her quarters, to discuss what they might be planning to do next. And as fond as they both were of planning, one thing led to another, and when morning came Tyrion was abed with her.

"I swear I did not plan this," he said, grinning sheepishly.

No more than she did. She knew Tyrion, she thought, better than ever before; she trusted him, she appreciated him, she felt gratitude and affection towards him. But nothing warned her that this man, _this_ man from whose touch she once flinched away, possessed the skill of setting her on fire. He traced her skin with his fingertips, he caressed and rubbed and kissed and once he sensed he was giving her pleasure, it went to his head like wine. With wonder and delight Sansa realized that she relishes his touch, his scent, his warmth, the sweet words that were whispered in the dark. Free of fear, of bitterness, of grief and mistrust, she leaped over the border she never thought she could cross with him. And then it was the breaking of dawn, and Tyrion looked at her, worry etched in his face, as if he feared the light of day would break the delightful spell. And she smiled and kissed him and told him she loved him, and her heart was born anew.

Their sense of decency and propriety led them to prefer a quick, quiet ceremony during which they renewed their marriage vows, and Sansa moved into the Tower of the Hand.

"Sansa," her sister said in sudden, uncharacteristic concern, "you didn't do this - well - only because you felt you had no choice... did you?"

Sansa frowned. "What do you mean?"

"All your suitors were such a disappointment. There was no one you could accept, even if you liked any of them, and I know you didn't. You were never truly fit to become a septa, either. Now you are the lady of Casterly Rock, and your husband is the King's Hand, but I wonder if you... if you only accepted him because you felt you could do no better."

"Yes," Sansa said, blushing, "I _did_ feel I could do no better. Not because I'm such a great lady now, though. Because..." she struggled with words. "Because no one could be better for me than Tyrion." The look of bewilderment on her sister's face made her smile in amusement. "You will understand in time."

"So now you are settled here again for a good long while," Arya shook her head. "I thought you hated King's Landing."

"I did. But I believe the city began to redeem itself in my eyes," said Sansa. "At any rate, now that we are married Tyrion got leave to take me to visit Casterly Rock. He has scarcely seen the place since becoming its lord. We shall be gone in a fortnight."

In several weeks, when the salty wind of Lannisport harbor mussed Sansa's hair, she felt almost as giddy as a girl. She turned her face up, closed her eyes, and allowed her cheeks to be kissed by a gentle breeze. She no longer kept her face covered. The poultice Maester Edwyn had concocted for her was working miracles, but even so, Sansa would probably never have the smooth unblemished skin of her girlhood again. She stopped worrying about it, however. She now had her husband, a man who would always find her beautiful, a man whom she now loved with all her heart. She no longer cared about how he looked, or how small he was, or what was said behind their backs when they were seen together as a couple. All that mattered now was the sweet words, the gentle touches, the kindness and warmth, the hand that now held hers so firmly and tenderly.

"There we are," said Tyrion, gesturing upwards to the magnificent rock jutting upwards and forwards into the sea. "Casterly Rock, Sansa. The ancient seat of House Lannister... the place I never thought to lord over," he added, his voice suddenly somber. Sansa squeezed his hand.

"It is your birthright," she said, "it was meant to be yours, ever since you were a boy. Your brother was in the Kingsguard, and your father had no other sons."

"True," he nodded, "but my father... well, it makes no difference now. He is dead and gone. I hope you will find our stay here pleasant."

"I am certain I will," Sansa said. She was quite ready to be pleased now. Of late, wherever they went, whatever they did felt god. The strained silences, the unspoken arguments were all gone, as a night's mist evaporates in the golden light of morning. Quite simply, they were happy.

_- The End - _

_And yes... thus it ends. For once, I wanted to write a story about Sansa and Tyrion which wouldn't involve murdering anyone. Nothing but sweet romance!_

_I thank my faithful readers and frequent commenters, Zireael07, Pellaeonthewingedlion, and of course Mrs-Imp, who encourages me to let Sansa and Tyrion take over my life. :o)_

_Inspiration song for writing this story was _Sielu, sydän ja kyyneleet ("Soul, heart and tears - Finn.) by Kari Tapio.


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